


Autocannibalistic nostalgia

by Taniushka12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Gen, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Memories, Nostalgia, Rain, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taniushka12/pseuds/Taniushka12
Summary: Martin remembers moments carried by the rain, and how it all changed with time.
Relationships: (implied / referenced / implied in that order), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Kudos: 14





	Autocannibalistic nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> originally written august last year, I Think after I woke up at like 6 am and got inspired by the rain? (I'm always thinking about the concept of lonly!martin so it's probable lmao) Anyway I found this nearly finished a couple of days ago so here it is in all its rambly angsty glory.
> 
> Hope you like it!

Martin woke, violently. He could still felt his heart racing, the smell of humidity and claustrophobia and worms tainting the last memories of his dream, before he started to forget, and instead of that focused on the rain pounding on his window.

He looked at his phone to make sure it was still way too early so he could go back to sleep, to not avail. It was early, yes, but if he ever tried to close his eyes he'd risk going in late. And, besides, he felt too worked up to fall asleep. Might as well enjoy the sound of the rain.

Rain.

He used to love rain, it was peaceful and, for what was worth, it always had a warm feeling to him. The image of him drinking a warm cup of tea, playing some music on the radio while the rain fell slowly on the window always made him feel at peace. But it was different now.

Memories started to rise, to the time he was merely an innocent child, waking up early on a sunday and finding his way on his parent's bed between them. He grimaced, not even remembering his father's face but being certain of his absent presence at his side while his mom read him parts of whatever book she was reading out loud. (She used to read a lot, not a lot you could do when sick). The rain was there, too. He could almost see it abstractly, more present than his father and drowning his mom's words. He got up, ready to start making some breakfast and hating the way his guts twisted.

Stirring the tea, making some toast, looking at the dark gray sky slowly getting just a bit clearer. He smiled, for a moment, at the memory of the time Jon arrived early to the Institute when he was making his own breakfast, that he accepted to eat with him. Jon apparently hasn't eaten anything that day, too worried about the rain to do it or something. Martin told him the importance of a good meal, but besides the light worry he remember the happiness that brought him having him there, sharing that moment with him while Jon talked about the latest case.

It had been warm, once. The rain surrounded the scene, glow beautifully framed by its sharp and cold cuts. Now he just felt the cold, the cold cutting anger of seeing from afar how he threw himself into danger, how he fell down the path of monsterhood.

At least Martin walked down with purpose.

He moved to his small living room, teacup in hand and trying to get some warm out of it despite being in pyjamas when the gray, light blueish hue of the clouds drowned his house on its coldness. The cold didn't bother him as it once did, he was getting used to it. Perhaps too used to it. Too Comfortable with it.

Hm.

The rain nearly cracked him there, just for a second, as he suddenly remembered... Tim.

He couldn't help but look at the second hand couch besides him, thrown back to... one of the times Tim stayed on his flat for the night. When the sky made its way to look this sea of sunless gray but the rain fell down in unison, Tim had looked... sad. Not forced happiness, not anger to mask off his fear. He looked this pure blank sorrow as he accepted the teacup from his hand.

He told him about Danny. Not about his death at the hands of _monsters_ , but a bit about his life, their life as brothers. He told him about Sasha. He let Martin hold him as he cried on his shoulder, run his hands across his hair and make circles on his back. He couldn't remember how long they stayed like that after that, the monotonous weather looking the same the entire day, but he remembered that at some point they gave up the plan of getting up, and Martin wrapped them both in a blanket. He had wished he could be safe, feeling him pressed against him while sharing body heat, chastely kissing him, that cold day merely a year or so ago.

And then he **died**.

He took a sharp breath, that same grief overtaking him for a second before he opened the window. Each drop sting like a cold needle against his arm and he hissed, but it was exactly what he needed. Focus. He couldn't let the past drown him, let the nostalgia for a sepia coloured past pull him back, faces of people that were no more affect him.

...

He wondered if Peter got nostalgic sometimes. If he would accept the nostalgia and take the remaining pain and loneliness like some sort of emotional masochism, if he would be too numb to even feel it, or if he simply didn't have anything to be nostalgic about. He didn't know what to think about it, didn't know which was worse, which he'd _prefer._

Feeling the water make a trail down his elbows made him shiver, and he sighed. He wished Peter was there with him. He was the only person that didn't leave him yearning for things that he could never have. Even his once cold hands over his skin weren't so now, his own being growing colder and his skin feeling even warm against it.

He made a face. He didn't want to think about Peter. He didn't want to think about any of them. He tried to not avail to dry his arms before sliding down the wall, pressing his hands to his face, to his eyes, in an attempt to cool them down before his head started aching even harder. He couldn't bask in the pain, nostalgia feeling but a gift from his "God", but he could bask in the white noise that the rain provided. That feeling of solitude that it gave to him, of being completely alone in the world with the water making rivers. No distractions. It was easier, it was peaceful, but most importantly it made him... happy, content, he thought. He couldn't remember the last time he felt genuinely happy. (He wanted to say when he heard the news that Jon woke up from his come, but he knew he was lying)

The tears felt hot and corrosive against his ice cold cheeks, but after a while of soundless dripping he cleaned his face, and got up. The rain kept falling down, white noise as the fog framed the landscape beneath his window. The thought of how strange it was, considering it had looked like the sky was clearing, crossed his mind, but just like the people he had maybe loved or maybe hated he simply shrugged it off. Ready to go to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever think...... about Peter being related to the sea and stuff and wonder what about martin? What about martin........
> 
> So, rain!


End file.
